‘That’s unlucky.’ This sounds like a terrible understate-ment, but it’s the truth. With the exception of Jamie, the others have all had the same social workers since they came here.
Jamie’s has changed three times in the past five years, but he doesn’t really care who comes to check on him now as he’s so settled.
It sounds as though George has had an unusually high turnover of caseworkers. No wonder some things have slipped through the cracks.
‘You should speak to my parents about it. They might be able to help.’
‘They can’t even keep Ashlee and Nia together,’ he reminds me, and there’s an accusation in his tone that makes me feel horrible.
‘Believe me, they are trying. Nia’s adoptive parents are coming in a few weeks and I know my parents want Ashlee there for the meeting. They haven’t given up.’
His eyebrows draw together. ‘You mean there’s a chance they might be adopted by the same couple? Why didn’t you say that last week?’
‘I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. I’m trying not to think about it myself. The alternative is too heartbreaking.’ I clear my throat. ‘You’d better change the subject if you don’t want me to cry.’
He rolls his eyes.
‘I’m serious. And I’m not a pretty crier.’
‘Is anyone a pretty crier?’ he asks.
‘Becky is. She’s stunning at all times.’
He presses his lips together. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I’ll make her cry for you one day, you’ll see.’
He grins and I return his smile.
Chapter 11 Now
It’s early July and mild, but Mum lights a fire anyway. It’s been a month since Dad’s funeral and this is my first night back after packing up the flat in London. I left the furniture for Jamie and Dani, plus a few other bits and pieces. They needed somewhere to live at short notice and will cover my monthly mortgage payments, so it worked out well for all of us. It’s unlikely I’d get another mortgage in my position so I’m in no rush to sell.
It was surreal saying goodbye to Jamie and Dani and my friends in London. I’m close to Bronte who lives next door – she’s the mum of the twins that Emilie plays with – but she and her husband have been talking about moving further out too so we might not have been neighbours for much longer anyway.
‘Is Emilie okay?’ Mum asks.
‘She’s excited,’ I reply with a smile.
Bedtime took longer than usual. I thought Emilie would be shattered, but she wanted to chat.
‘She asked if you could read her a story, but I didn’t think we’d ever get her to settle if you did.’
‘I can read to her tomorrow night. I’m looking forward to being able to help out more.’
‘I’d like that too.’
We smile at each other and Mum passes me a small glass of sherry from the side table. I’m not a big sherry fan, but I chink her glass anyway.
‘Cheers.’
Her eyes mist up.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say gently.
‘Sorry! Sorry!’ She brushes away a couple of stray tears. ‘I won’t be like this for long, but I’m so grateful you decided to come home. The house has felt horrendously empty.’ She looks around the living room. ‘I’ve been thinking I might have to take in some boarders or open a B&B—’
‘Please don’t!’ I’m not sure if she’s even remotely serious, but I am not joking.
‘I wouldn’t.’ She shakes her head. ‘I know you need your space these days.’
I always needed space, Mum. More than I ever let on.
‘How has it been going with George?’ I know that Jamie has been showing him the ropes.
‘Great,’ she replies. ‘Isn’t it good to have him back in our lives? I worried about him for so long.’
Didn’t we all.
Mum looks down at the glass in her hands, swirling the liquid around before taking another sip. My gaze drifts to the flames dancing hypnotically in the fireplace.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ Mum says hesitantly. ‘Well, it’s not my idea exactly, but I heard about something similar when I was last in the Cracked Teapot.’
The Cracked Teapot is the café my parents set up almost twenty years ago to help teenagers transition out of care: they employ only care leavers. It can be terrifying going out on your own at the age of eighteen, but having a steady, decent job with a boss who understands what you’re going through is worth its weight in gold.
Jamie did a stint there the summer before he went to veterinary school. Shauna ran it then and still does. An indomitable thirty-something with flaming red hair and multiple ear piercings, Shauna’s daily duties include not only serving tea and cakes, but managing and mentoring the young people who work under her. Of her four current employees, only one is a former charge of my parents.
‘Tell me,’ I encourage, detecting doubt in her voice.
‘I thought about running some knitting workshops,’ she says. ‘At the café. I’d supply the fleece and knitting patterns and people could pay to join in. We thought we could include lunch or afternoon tea as part of the deal.’
‘We?’
‘I was talking to Shauna and Gemma about it.’
Gemma is Shauna’s girlfriend, a larger-than-life, warm and steady woman with a wicked cackle of a laugh. She works as a postie in and around Ripon.
‘It sounds like a great idea, but weren’t you planning to take on less?’
‘I need to occupy my mind, Lee-Lee,’ Mum replies. ‘I have to do something. And if it’s not going to be running a B&B…’
She smiles at the look on my face.
‘Well, I’ll help in any way that I can,’ I state.
‘I was hoping you might come to my first workshop.’
‘Erm… I do know how to knit…’
She smiles at me. ‘Obviously. But I’ll need people to make up numbers so it looks like a roaring success.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be a roaring success anyway, but of course I’ll come – as long as it’s okay for Emilie to come too? Unless she’s started nursery by then… When are you planning the first one?’
‘I’m hoping as early as next month. And yes, Emilie can join us. I’ll teach her to knit too.’
‘At three and a half? You reckon?’
‘She’s a bright little thing. Start her early – she might be running this place one day.’
This comment gives me pause for thought. ‘Mum, I’m not sure how permanent this will be for us,’ I say cautiously, looking around at our surroundings. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do yet.’
‘I know, I know,’ she brushes me off.
I let it go. The thought of selling off the herd is bad enough. If she had to give up the farm, it might well be the end of her.
* * *
The next morning, I take Emilie with me to let out the hens. She’s on top of the world, running through the long grass in bright yellow wellies, a summer dress with a blue-green floral pattern on it and a knitted jumper fashioned from light silver grey – courtesy of Dahlia, if I remember correctly. Her hair is getting long now – I still haven’t taken her to a hairdresser – and it comes to her shoulder blades, her natural dark-blond shade glinting with golden summer highlights.